*F^ 


.^ 

M 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


•• 


POEMS 


SELECTIONS 


BY 


E  .     I).     R  A  X  I) 


!'i  m.iMiF.u  BY  ••  LISBON  I.IBKAKY  ASSOCIATION." 
1885. 


COHOS  STEAM   PRESS, 

BITTINGER  BROS.    PROPRIETORS, 

HAVERHILL,  N.  H. 


'- 


NOTE. 

The  following  Poems  and  Selections  from  the  stray 
literary  papers  of  a  busy  lawyer,  are  published  as  a 
Memorial  of  their  Author,  in  obedience  to  a  very 
general  desire  of  those  who  knew  him  most  intimately. 
Some  of  them  are  only  fragments,  without  titles  even., 
and  without  careful  and  critical  revision,  the  product 
of  a  few  leisure  hours  which  were  snatched  from  an 
exacting  and  laborious  profession,  and  are  given  as 
they  were  left  in  their  incomplete  form. 

They  are  published  solely  in  the  interest  of  the 

"LISBON    LlBltAKY    ASSOCIATION.'' 


759443 


CONTENTS. 

POEMS. 

'I'm:  Two  VOICES 9 

THRENODY 12 

BEHIND  THK  VAIL, 13 

Tin  TH, 14 

SONNET, 17 

IN  MKMOHIAM, 18 

AFTER  THE  BATTLE, 20 

.        .        .  22 

OH!  WHY  ARE  THE  HOSES  so  PALE?      ....  23 

24 

A  FRAGMENT 25 

2(5 

A  VALENTINE, 27 

To  Ax  OLD  FRIEND, 2s 

CHRISTMAS  DAY.  1870, 30 

01 

•                 ••••••••  •>  I 

LINES  WRITTEN  IN  A  STRANGER'S  Ai.m  M.      .        .        .32 

33 

LINES  TO  -                    35 

(iRowiXG  OLD, 38 

POEM,  before  the  Bar  Association, 41 

SELECTIONS. 

l)i  r.\(  IIEI>  THOTGHTS,            51 


POEMS. 


POEMS. 

THE  TWO  VOICES. 

FIRST    VOICE. 

In  all  this  unresponsive  universe, 

What  canst  thou  see,  O  dreamer  of  fond  dreams, 

That  fills  thy  heart  with  hope?     Thy  little  life, 

Alas  !  is  but  a  fiery  spark,  that  drops 

Into  a  shoreless  sea  —  a  brief  sweet  dream, 

That  fades  into  a  dreamless  sleep.      The  earth 

Itself,  on  which  thou  standest,  vast  to  thee. 

And  full  of  hopeless  mystery,  the  grave 

Of  unremembered  millions  of  thy  race, 

Is  but  a  grain  of  sand, 

In  yonder  starry  wilderness  of  worlds. 

And  what  indeed  art  thou,  that  Nature  should 
Remember  aught  of  thee?     Will  her  rough  breast 


)  Poems. 

Grow  soft  in  pity  for  thy  bruised  limbs, 

Or  her  great  heart  beat  quick  with  pain,  because 

Thine  eyes  are  filled  with  tears  ? 

On  tireless  wings 

The  days  and  months  will  pass  as  swiftly  as 
A  "  weaver's  shuttle,"  and  the  joyless  sleep 
Which  nevermore  in  all  the  noiseless  years 
Can  be  disturbed,  will  come,  as  surely  as 
Old  age  must  follow  youth.      Thy  body  will 
Become  a  clod,  and  thy  frail  spirit  but 
A  wasted  breath. 


SECOND    VOICE. 

Lift  up  thy  saddened  eyes  in  hope,  thou  child 
Of  God.      Can  thought  be  born  of  that,  which  hath 
No   power  of  thought?     Whence  comes  thy   won 
drous  soul, 

Unless  there  somewhere  be  a  grander  Soul 
That  touches  thine  through  laws  that  never  change? 
The  universe  is  vast   indeed ;    but  He 


The  Two  Voices.  1 1 

Who  planned  and    made    it,    fills    it    through  and 

through  — 

The  smallest  atom  and  the  largest  star, 
There  is  no  point  in  space  where  Chaos  reigns. 
Lean  then  securely  on  the  Eternal  Law, 
That  rests  upon  the  Everlasting  Thought, 
And  underlies  all  life  and  death.     Take  thou 
The  "  Morning's  wings,"  and  upward  pass  beyond 
The  Pleiades  and  this  shall  follow  thee, 
And  be  around  thce  and  within.      And  down 
Beneath  the  sea,  the  tiniest  things  that  move 
In  strange  and  sunless  caves,  are  fashioned  with 
Minutest  care,  and  live  and  die  in  strict 
Obedience  to  a  still  resistless  Power. 
Each  hair  upon  thy  head,  once  broken  from 
Thy  life,  shall  tenderly  be  handed  back 
Into  the  universal  life,  without 
Haste  and  without  waste.     Fearest  thou  that  that 
Which  is  thy  very  self — thy  soul  —  with  its 
Prophetic  and  far-reaching  thought,  can  be 
Forgotten?     Fear  it  not,  but  strong  in  hope, 


1  '2  Poems. 

Exultant  in  thy  faith,  go  forth  to  meet 
The  certain  Life  in  Death,  as  if  to  meet 
A  steadfast  friend,  who  waits  to  welcome  thee. 
For  great,  benignant  Nature,  who  in  her 
Appointed  way  and  time  remembers  all 
Things,  must  remember  thee,  and  all  the  seed 
Her  hand  hath  scattered,  and  the  harvest  of 
Immortal  fruit. 


THRENODY. 

Through  all  the  lingering  years  in  vain  for  thy  embrace 
An  aching  heart  will  yearn  and  wait !     By  day  or  night 
I  never — nevermore  shall  look  upon  thy  face, 
Or  watch  thy  cheerful  coming  with  a  new  delight. 
A  thousand  things  will  say  to  me  —  it  is  the  end 
Of  life,  now  in  the  fullness  of  good  deeds  complete. 
But  what  hast  thou  to  fear,  my  restful,  vanished  friend. 
Since    sleep,    dreamful    or  dreamless,    either   way,   is 
sweet  ? 


BEHIND  THE  VEIL. 

Lo  !  the  marvellous  contrast  of  shadow  and  light, — 
Of  shadows  that  darken  and  lights  that  adorn  ; 
And  after  the  day  comes  the  shadowy  night, 
And  after  the  night  come  the  splendors' of  morn. 

And  raptures  and  sorrows  through  all  the  brief  years 
Keep  crossing,  to  weave  in  the  web  of  our  life, 
Till  another,  the  greatest  of  shadows  appears, 
To  hush  into  stillness  the  tumult  and  strife. 

And  thou,  Shadow  of  shadows,  the  darkest  of  all, 
Concealing  what  has  been  and  what  is  to  be, 
That  liest  on  life  and  its  joys  like  a  pall, 
Oh  !  what  is  the  splendor  that  lies  behind  thee  ? 


TRUTH. 

There  is  hope  in  the  clash  of  creeds, 

In  the  war  of  the  old  and  new. 

And  in  all  the  valiant  deeds 

Of  soldiers  good  and  true. 

But  many  eyes  must  weep, 

For  human  faith  is  weak, 

And  Truth  is  buried  deep, 

And  science  slow  to  speak, 

And  error  well  inwrought 

With  all  the  forms  of  thought. 

But  why  indeed  should  those 

(Now  toiling  in  repose) 

Who  worship  only  Truth, 

Be  troubled  by  the  throes 

Of  an  angry  world,  forsooth? 

This  only  they  demand  : 


To  labor  at  its  task, 


Truth.  15 

And  wave  its  sceptre  of  command 

Over  continents  of  land 

And  islands  of  the  sea  ; — 

That  truth  be  not  concealed, 

And  falsehood  drop  her  mask. 

Then  let  the  lines  be  drawn, 

The  banners  be  unfurled, 

The  rival  trumpets  blown, 

And  let  the  war  rage  on 

Until  God's  will  be  done 

Through  all  the  stormy  world. 

There  is  glory  in  the  strife, 

For  truth  can  never  die, 

And  only  a  dying  life 

Be  given  to  a  lie. 

The  little  that  we  know 

Can  never  pass  away, 

And  more  may  be  revealed. 

The  solid  earth  will  stay, 

The  eternal  rivers  flow 

To  the  eternal  sea  : 


16  Poems. 


Nor  will  the  Heavens  decay; 
Venus  and  fiery  Mars, 
And  Jupiter  the  grand, 
And  all  the  shining  band 
Of  sweet,  familiar  stars, 
Which  now  our  eyes  can  see, 
In  their  accustomed  places, 
In  the  far,  aerial  spaces, 
Will  show  their  smiling  faces  ; 
And  beyond  all  these,  no  less, 
In  the  blue  immensity, 
Will  glow  a  wilderness 
Of  stars  we  cannot  see. 


SONNET. 

Another  joy  has  gone  out  of  a  life, 

As  though  a  moon  should  drop  from  its  path. 
Fall  away  from  a  cluster 
Of  stars,  bereaving  the  sky  of  its  lustre, 

The  earth  of  its  glory.      Who  is  there  who  fears 
Not  a  still,  ignominious  strife, 

The  torture  of  desolate  tears, 

The  fires  of  a  smouldering  wrath, 

That  will  burn  through  the  lingering  years. 
And  be  quenched  in  the  lethe  of  death  ? 

A  gloom  that  can  never  depart, 
Since  the  light  of  each  pitiless  morrow 

Must  bring  to  an  o'erburdened  heart 
A  voiceless  and  measureless  sorrow. 


IX  MEMORIAM. 

JAMES     A  .     G  A  R  F  I  E  L  1)  . 

The  spirit  hath  taken  its  flight, 

Where  the  land  and  the  waters  meet, 

And  never  a  nobler  fight 

AVas  crowned  with  immortal  defeat. 

O  !  weak  as  the  opening  air, 

To  the  pressure  of  death-dealing  darts, 
Is  the  burden  of  innermost  prayer, 

From  millions  of  agonized  hearts. 

And  vain  is  the  vigilant  skill 
That  watches  mysterious  laws, 

And  vainer  the  dominant  will, 
That  clings  to  a  perishing  cause. 

Dead  !  by  the  murmuring  shore 
Of  the  cold  and  passionless  sea  ; 


In  Memoriam.  It) 

O  !  brave,  noble  heart,  nevermore, 
Can  its  voices  be  music  to  thee. 

Released  from  the  wearisome  strife, 
The  torture  of  laboring  breath, — 

Up  into  the  glory  of  life, 

That  gleams  through  the  shadow  of  death. 


AFTER  THE  BATTLE. 

On  the  horizon's  edge  reclining 
Ghost-like  sits  the  moon  in  shrouds. 
Here  and  there  the  stars  are  shining 
Dimly  through  the  scattered  clouds. 

Cannon's  roar  and  musket's  rattle 
Rend  no  more  the  startled  air ; 
Hushed  are  all  the  sounds  of  battle, 
Beasts  of  prey  are  drawing  near. 

Friends  and  foes  no  longer  heeding 
Hatred  in  each  other's  eyes, 
Side  by  side  lie  torn  and  bleeding, 
Careless  of  the  victor's  prize. 

Heroes,  wounded,  worn  and  wasted. 
Sink  upon  the  ground  to-night, 
Joys  they  dreamed  of  all  untasted 
Swim  before  their  glazing;  sight. 


After  The  Battle.  21 

Friends  at  home  who  loved  them  fondly, — 
Proud  of  all  their  former  scars, 
Who  shall  tell  those  friends  how  soundly 
Now  they  sleep  beneath  the  stars? 

Lay  them  in  their  beds  of  glory, 
Fast  by  ocean's  sounding  waves  ; 
None  there  are  to  tell  their  story, 
Yet  they  sleep  in  holy  graves. 

Earth,  thou  fond  and  gentle  mother, 
Fold  them  on  thy  loving  breast ; 
Guard  them  safely  till  another 
Morn  shall  break  their  solemn  rest. 


We  pray  not  for  ourselves, — the  strife 
And  pain  and  doubt  will  come  no  more 
To  us, — and  Death  is  but  the  door 
That  opens  to  a  larger  life. 

We  pray  for  all  the  souls  that  grope 
In  darkness  —  bear  the  heavy  load 
Of  doubt  upon  their  weary  road, 
And  never  feel  the  joy  of  hope. 


OH!    WHY    ARE    THE    ROSES    SO    PALE? 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF  HEINE. 

Oh  !  why  are  the  roses  so  pale, 
My  love  ;  O  !  whither  has  vanished  their  bloom  ? 
And  why,  'mid  the  grasses  that  grow  in  the  vale, 
Have  the  violets  lost  their  perfume? 

And  why  have  the  stars  grown  so  dim, 
My  love  ;  and  the  charm  of  their  mystical  light 
Passed  out  of  the  desolate  sky,  like  a  dream, 
That  changes  its  face  in  the  night? 

And  why  have  the  music  of  words, 
My  love,  and  the  splendors  of  canvas  and  pen 
Passed  away,  like  the  song  and  flutter  of  birds, 
When  the  forests  have  ceased  to  be  green  ? 

Dim  to  me  the  sweet  light  of  the  skies, 
My  love,  and  the  glories  of  nature  and  art, 
When,  longing,  I  see  not  the  light  of  your  eyes, 
And  feel  not  the  beat  of  your  heart. 


Thou  whom  we  cannot  see, 
Mid  all  our  toil  and  strife  ; 
Oh  !  Thou  who  still  must  be 
A  presence  in  our  life  ; — 

Shall  we,  when  near  the  land 
Touched  by  the  mystic  river, 
Then  feel  Thy  loving  hand 
To  guide  and  to  deliver? 

Alas  !  we  can  but  guess, 
And  dimly  dream  the  night 
Of  death,  so  dark  to  us, 
May  usher  in  new  light, 

And  yet  we  fear  the  night 
Too  full  of  clouds  may  be, 
To  bring  those  stars  to  light, 
Which  now  we  cannot  see. 


POVIII*. 

Our  eyes  are  filled  with  tears  ; 
For  they  have  searched  in  vain 
These  many,  weary  years 
Of  doubt  and  toil  and  pain. 


A  FRAGMENT. 

The  frost  is  on  the  hills, — and  Summer's  work  is  done. 
I  fain  would  think  that  gentle  Nature  grieves 
O'er  all  the  lessening  splendors  of  the  setting  su'n. 
The  fragile  glory  of  the  dropping  leaves. 


Far  over  the  wide-reaching  meadow 
I  see  the  red  sun  on  the  bay  ; 

And  slowly  night's  envious  shadow 
Will  darken  the  light  of  the  day. 

But  gladly  the  sun  I  surrender, 
For  yonder  is  red-hearted  Mars  ; 

And  I  see  that  the  ravishing  splendor 
Was  hiding  the  liijht  of  the  stars. 


stem 


A  VALENTINE. 

The  waters  kiss  the  earth  so  green  ! 
The  loving  earth  and  sky  embrace, 
And  yon  bright  worlds  above,  I  ween, 
Keep  kissing  in  the  realms  of  space. 

And  Night,  the  goddess  eldest  born, 
The  pink  of  modesty  and  grace, 
Pants  for  the  earliest  kiss  of  morn, 
And  blushing,  hides  her  starry  face. 

80  now,  be  thou  a  gentle  giver 
Of  one  sweet  gift ;  for  tell  me  why, 
Since  all  things  else  are  kissing  ever, 
O,  wherefore  should  not  you  and  I? 


TO  AX  OLD  FRIEND. 

Seeking  labor  or  pleasure,  wherever  them  art, 
Somewhere  on  the  land  or  the  sea  ; 
In  faith  of  a  promise  once  made, 

Dear  friend  of  my  youth  and  my  heart, 
This  greeting  I  send  unto  thee. 

Away  from  the  shock  of  alarms, 
On  the  edge  of  the  shadowy  mere, 
We  have  gazed  into  star-lighted  skies, 

While  the  hushed  woods  lay  still  in  the  arms 
Of  the  fragrant  and  motionless  air. 

Our  life  is  two-fold ;   we  may  tread 

Its  hot  sands,  while  we  dream  of  the  green 
Cool  oases  now  vanished  and  gone  ; 

The  dead  past  may  uncover  its  dead — 
Pale  shadows  of  things  that  have  been. 

Ah  !  me,  must  we  fail  in  our  quest, 

Never  reach  the  bright  «;oal  that  we  seek? 


To  An  Old  Friend.  29 

Remorseless  the  years  glide  away. 
Tired  limbs  are  longing  for  rest, 

And  our  voices  though  tender,  are  weak. 

Sweet  rest  from  the  sorrow  and  pain  ! 

Sweet  rest  from  the  trouble  and  care  ! 

But  love  is  unwilling  to  yield  ; 
And  the  spirit  hath  pinions  that  fain 

Would  beat  in  a  limitless  air. 

AY  hen  the  day-spring  shall  pass  into  night 
And  we  gaze  on  the  green  earth  no  more, 
May  God  let  me  look  in  thine  eyes. 

As  they  smile  in  the  fathomless  light, 
That  shines  on  an  evergreen  shore. 


CHRISTMAS    DAY,    1870. 

Mamma  says  that  the  papa  must  make  a  few  rhymes, 
Rhymes,  too,  that  are  sensible,  pleasant  and  witty  ; 
Something  to  chime  with  the  Christmas  chimes, 
And  carol  our  love  to  our  dear  little  Kitty. 

And  papa  has  tried  and  his  labor  is  done. 
But  he  knows,  very  well,  that  it  is  a  great  pity 
These  poor  little  rhymes  limp  so  as  they  run, 
But  they  '11  carry  our  love  to  our  dear  little  Kitty. 

The  casket  is  poor,  but  the  jewel  is  rare. 
The  casket,  you  know,  is  this  queer  little  ditty  ; 
And  the  jewel  within  it  is  something  to  wear 
Very  close  to  the  heart  of  our  dear  little  .Kitty. 


The1  Winter  is  past.      The  Summer  now  comes, 
And  glad  are  the  faces  that  smile  in  our  homes. 
We  wrangle  no  more  over  alien  rights, 
But  quaff  the  bright  nectar  of  friendly  delights. 

Sharp  are  the  rocks  and  the  brambles  we  meet ; 
And  lonesome  the  pathway  under  our  feet. 
Brief  are  the  flowers  and  tender  their  bloom, 
And    swift    are    the    storm -winds   that    steal    their 
perfume. 

Come  out  of  the  shadow  and  into  the  light  ! 
Brief  is  the  day  and  weary  the  night. 
Now  touch  the  sweet  lips  of  child  and  of  wife, 
And  banish  the  cares  and  the  sorrows  of  life. 

For  each  man  alike,  whether  poet  or  dunce, 
The  foam  on  the  wine-cup  sparkles  but  .once. 
Then   lift   the   bright   goblet   and  drink   while   you 

may — 
To-morrow  we  know  not,  we  live  in  to-day. 


LINES    WRITTEN     IX    A    STRANGER'S 
ALBUM. 

I  knew  a  casket  rich  and  rare, 
Where  Love  its  sparkling  diamonds  placed  ; 
And  Friendship  with  a  tender  care, 
Arranged  her  pearls  in  faultless  taste. 

A  stranger,  poor  in  yems,  one  day, 
Hoping  a  pleasant  smile  to  win, 
Came  where  the  shining  casket  lay, 
And  softly  dropped  a  pebble  in. 


Our  faith  in  things  unseen, 
So  like  an  unbelief, 
Through  all  our  lives  has  been 
Poor  solace  in  our  grief. 

Oh  !  we  are  worn  and  weary, 
Down-trodden  in  the  fight ; 
Our  nights  are  dark  and  dreary, 
Our  days  resemble  night. 

And  blindly  we  must  grope 
Beneath  the  barren  skies  ; 
We  cannot  speak  of  hope, 
We  will  not  babble  lies.  • 

Thou,  whom  we  cannot  find, 
Thou,  God  !  concealed  from  sight, 
How  shall  the  weak  and  blind 
E'er  stumble  into  lio-ht? 


Poems. 

We  shall  not  know  Thee  here, 
We  cannot  hear  Thy  voice  ; 
There  is  no  form  of  prayer 
To  make  our  souls  rejoice. 

Oh  !  grant  that  in  that  hour 
When  earthly  things  shall  pass, 
Behind  the  clouds  that  lower, 
We  may  behold  Thy  face. 


LINES  TO 

Fair  lady,  we  have  met  but  once  —  and  rapidly 
The  thoughts  and  words,  that  now  do  crowd 
Upon  my  mind,  did  fade  from  out  thy  memory, 
As  fades  from  heaven  the  passing  cloud. 

But  I  could  not  so  soon  forget  —  must  ever  be 
Recalling  things  too  bright  to  last ; 
Must  linger  over  fond  remembrances  of  thee, 
Still  shining,  shining  through  the  past. 

O  !  would  that  I  could   look  once   more  into  your 

eyes, 

And  dream  and  hope  they  smiled  on  me, 
Like   stars   that   lovingly   look    out    from    Summer 

skies, 
To  smile  upon  the  trembling  sea. 

And   I  would  hear  once   more   the   music   of  your 

voice, 
That  types  the  music  of  the  heart ; 


)  Poems. 

And  feel  my  heart  leap  up  with  long-remembered 

joys  — 
Vague  joys  that  dreams  and  hopes  impart. 

But  ah  !   we  ne'er  may  meet  again  until  the  May 
Of  life  shall  all  have  passed  and  gone  ; 
Until  the  blossoms  of  our  youth  have  passed  away, 
And  wintry  age  comes  stealing  on. 

But  the  sweet  image  of  thy  face,  so  briefly  known, 

And  long  remembered,  still  shall  dwell 

Enshrined    within   my  "heart    of  hearts"  and    all 

alone 
Be  worshipped  more  than  tongue  can  tell. 

How  strange  is  Love  !     What  golden   promises  he 

brings, 

To  thrill  us  with  a  wild  delight : 
And  then  we  only  hear  the  rustling  of  his  wings, 
As  he  unfurls  them  for  his  flight. 


Lines  To 37 

And  now,  farewell  !      I   know  these  feeble  lines  are 

naught 
To  thee.      But  still  it  must  belong 

C* 

To   Love,    "  thus   silvered   over  with    the  cast  of 
thought," 

To  breathe  its  passion  forth  in  song. 


GROWING  OLD. 

From  success  in  its  pride  and  defeat  in  its  shame, 
From  the  later  repose,  and  the  earlier  strife, 
The  half  that  we  learn  is  but  knowledge  in  name, 
And  dark  is  the  myst'ry  that  broods  over  life. 

I  smile  at  the  hopes  and  the  dreams  of  my  youth  — 
Brief  splendors  of  morning  with  clouds  overcast  ! 
Yet  something  of  worth,  which  I  cling  to,  in  sooth, 
Have  I  wrung  from   the   vanishing  years   as   they 
passed. 

I  have  painfully  tested  the  Old  and  the  New, 
Learned  what  to  distrust  and  what  to  believe  ; 
Gained   a   knowledge   of  things   that   are   steadfast 

and  true, 
And    a   knowledge   of   things   that   will   cheat   and 

deceive ; 

Of  the  uncertain  fame  of  the  pen  and  the  sword  ; 


Growing   Old.  3<> 

Of  the  pride  that  arises  from  ill-gotten  gain  ; 
Of  the  glory  of  labor  that  seeks  no  reward, 
But  silently  carries  its  burden  of  pain  ; 

Of  the  courage  that  faces  and  tramples  on  death  ; 
Of  the  garrulous  grief,  which  time  will  assuage  ; 
Of  the  bubbles  that  sparkle  and  break  with  a  breath  ; 
Of  the  love  that   grows   warmer   and   sweeter   with 
age; 

Of  the  valor  that  turns  from  a  glittering  cause, 
In  the  day  and  the  hour  of  its  noisy  success, 
To  worship  the  strength  and  the  stillness  of  laws, 
That  endure  through  the  ages  and  aeons  that  pass. 

But  alas  !  for  the   knowledge   that   comes   with   the 

flight 

Of  the  hours  ;  for  a  sorrowful  thing  'tis  to  know 
Of  the  increasing  shadow  and  lessening  light, 
As  the  days  and  the  months    and    the    years   come 

and  sro. 


40  Poems. 

The  friends  of  my  boyhood  and  youth,  one  by  one, 
And  the  friends  that   my   manhood  held   dear,    like 

the  gleams 

Of  a  warm,  sweet  summer  remembered,  have  gone 
Quite  out  of  my  life,  and  into  my  dreams. 

And  the  glow,  and  the  wealth  of  the  morning   have 

passed. 

And  the  fullness  of  noon  grown  empty  and  cold ; 
And  I  feel  all  the  sadness  that  must  come  at  last, 
Of  thoughts  that  are  barren,  and  limbs  that  are  old. 

Yet  I  welcome  the  sadness,  and  weakness  of  limb, 
For  I  know  that  the  lights  from  the  City  of  Rest, 
Shine  clearer  to  him  w^hose  eyes  have  grown  dim 
In  watching  the  shadows  that  grow  in  the  West. 


POEM. 

HEAD  BEFORE  THE  GRAFTON  AND  COOS  COUNTIES 
BAR   ASSOCIATION   AT   LANCASTER,  1884. 

Before  reading  my  exercise,  I  am  inclined  to  make  a  few 
preliminary  remarks.  I  have  nothing  to  say  about  the  quality 
of  the  composition  which  I  hold  in  my  hand,  at  least  in  prose. 
I  have  said  what  I  wished  to  say  on  that  subject  in  rhyme.  I 
am  perfectly  willing  that  anybody  should  regard  my  effort  as 
a  great  and  original  poem.  I  shall  make  no  quarrel  with  the 
generous  critic  upon  that  point ;  but  I  desire  to  apologize  for 
the  brevity  of  the  article.  It  is  a  novel  theme  for  apology, 
certainly,  but  I  think  a  good  one.  I  met  Brother  Batchellor 
at  the  late  term  of  court  in  Concord,  and  he  informed  me  that 
I  had  been  appointed  Bard  of  the  Association.  I  was  somewhat 
f lightened.  In  the  first  place,  I  hadn't  any  very  distinct  idea 
what  a  Bard  was ;  and  then  I  could  n't  understand  what  the 
Association  wanted  of  a  Bard.  But  I  found  excuses  were  not 
in  order.  Brother  Batchellor  told  me  that  nobody  was  per 
mitted  to  decline  an  honor  thrust  upon  him  .by  the  Association. 
And  so  I  agreed  to  try.  I  have  done  what  I  could ;  but  I  have 
been  cramped  for  time,  and  I  have  had  on  my  hands  other 
duties,  which  could  not  be  put  aside.  Moreover,  my  Pegasus  is 
getting  old,  and  his  wind  is  short,  and  he  never  was  much  of  a 
traveller.  He  is  accustomed  to  make  short  journeys  at  long 
intervals.  Indeed  he  reminds  me  very  much  of  a  certain  horse 
my  father  used  to  own.  The  horse  was  named  Sullen,  and  he 
was  a  very  peculiar  animal.  He  would  travel  when  he  chose 
to  travel,  and  no  amount  of  persuasion,  however  violent,  could 


42  Poems. 

induce  him  to  travel  when  he  did  not  chose.  When  the  humor 
struck  him,  he  would  stop  in  the  middle  of  a  wide,  smooth, 
level,  unobstructed  road,  and  you  might  whip  him.  kick  him, 
knock  him  down  or  build  a  lire  under  him,  without  any  per 
ceptible  effect  upon  his  locomotion.  My  father  always  used  to 
provide  himself  with  a  book  or  newspaper  whenever  he  went 
out  to  drive  the  creature,  and  when  the  horse  stopped,  the 
driver  would  begin  to  read,  and  would  continue  to  read,  some 
times  for  hours,  until  at  last  the  idea  would  get  into  the  head 
of  the  horse,  that  possibly,  all  things  considered,  some  mode 
rate  degree  of  progress  might  be  preferable  to  the  monotony 
of  a  long-continued  state  of  rest. 

To-day,  they  tell  me,  I  must  speak  in  rhyme, 
And,  hoping  for  the  coming  of  the  time, 
When  rhymed  conduct,  deeds  in  harmony 
With  generous  impulse,  in  nobility 
Of  thought  conceived,  beyond  our  present  reach, 
May  take  the  place  of  music  in  our  speech, 
I  yield  to  other's  wishes,  and  rehearse 
A  mass  of  barren  platitudes  in  verse. 

Therefore,  my  lyre,  thy  mute  and  tuneless  strings 
Must  tremble  at  the  touch  of  one  who  sings, 
When  he  should  only  talk,  and  strives  to  bring 
Back  to  dead  leaves  the  greenness  of  the  spring. 


Poem.  \:\ 

Like  the-  hug;*  hint  that  shakes  its  useless  wings, 
Then  runs,  and  backward  worthless  rubbish  flings, 
My  thoughts  prosaic,  p:>or  and  common  things, 
I  scatter,  strung  upon  poetic  strings. 

But  let  me  speak  a  word  of  honest  praise, 

Regardless  of  the  mocking,  bitter  lays 

Of  many  a  rhymster  in  the  by-gone  days. 

For  we  who  know  our  noble  calling  best, 

Can  well  afford  to  let  the  vulgar  jest 

Pass  pointless  by  us,  like  the  idle  wind, 

Since  they  who  shut  their  eyes   must   needs  be 

blind. 

lint  who,  I  ask,  are  those,  who  never  pause 
In  faithful  service,  ne'er  betray  a  cause, 
Whose  plighted  word,  with  great  affairs  at  stake, 
No  cautious  lawyer  e'er  declined  to  take, 
But  looks  upon  a  verbal  promise  given, 
As  something  sacred  as  his  hope  of  heaven? 
Who  do  no  falsehood,  nor  consent  that  lies 
Be  hidden  from  the  calm  and  patient  eyes 


44  Poems. 

Of  Justice?,  never  wittingly  promote, 
Or  sue,  or  help,  a  false,  unlawful  suit, 
Nor  e'er,  by  hint,  or  look,  or  deed,  or  word, 
Consent  that  any  such  false  cause  be  heard  ? 
For  lucre  or  for  malice  will  delav 
No  man,  but  justly  give  to  each  his  day 
In  Court,  with  due  fidelity  to  all, 
The  slaves  of  Justice,  though  the  heavens  should 
fall? 

My  brothers,  ye,  who  seek  the  holy  grail 
By  swearing  this,  in  words  that  must  not  fail, 
Behold  the  shining  goal  at  which  we  aim  ; 
And  if,  o'er  th'  rough  uneven  soil  with  lame 
And  halting  steps,  we  stumble  now  and  then, 
We  lose  not  hope,  but  stumble  like  brave  men, 
Who  struggle  o'er  an  upward  sloping  land, 
And  falling,  take  another  firmer  stand, 
And  nobly  strive  their  former  place  to  gain, 
Or  e'en  an  out-look  from  a  loftier  plane, 
Xor  shed  unmanly  tears  o'er  hopeless  pain. 


Poem.  45 

The  time  is  brief,  hut   "  hear  me  for  my  cause." 

I  speak  in  reverence  of  the  holy  laws, 

Not  always  easy  to  be  seen  and  read, 

But  stern  in  their  demands  to  be  obeyed, 

Not  always  to  be  found  in  printed  books, 

(Sermons  in  stones,  and  in  the  running  brooks,) 

Transcribed  upon  the  tablets  of  the  heart, 

And  legible  to  those  who  have  the  art 

Of  spelling  out  their  rich,  mysterious  lore. 

My  brothers  !     Ye  whose  aims  may  sink  or  soar, 

Who  cannot  pass  your  lives  in  dreamful  ease, 

Whose  paths  can  never  be  the  paths  of  peace, 

Who  fight  for  all  the  prizes  that  ye  win  ; 

Above  the  rushing  tumult  and  the  din 

Of  battle,  hear  the  poet  of  our  time, 

Singing  low,   "  we  can  make  our  lives  sublime." 

I  turn  from  this  exalted  theme, 
Strong  in  the  hope  that  it  may  never  seem 
To  us  or  others  but  a  dazzling  dream, 
To  glance  a  moment  at  the  present  good, 


4<>  Poems. 

Of  binding  fast  the  bonds  of  "brotherhood, 

Helping  each  other  in  and  out  of  Court, 

In  all  things  comely  and  of  good  report. 

Beyond  this  public  pledge  we  must  not  go  ; 

Our  rightful  homage  first  is  due  unto 

The  cause  we  serve, —  he  who  commands  our  aid, 

Must  keep  the  narrow  road  we  hope  to  tread. 

I  pass  not  by  the  good  of  goodly  cheer ; 

For  we  are  those,  who  have  no  lurking  fear, 

That  all  the  flowery  paths  of  life  must  tend 

Sheer  downward  to  a  melancholy  end, 

And  land  the  luckless  traveller  where 

His  soul  must  be  beyond  the  reach  of  prayer. 

Who  walk  in  duty's  path,  what'er  betides, 

May  pluck  the  flowers  that  blossom  on  its  sides. 

We  justly  boast  that  our  fraternity 

Is  true  and  genuine  democracy. 

And  so  we  stand  upon  the  level  earth, 

And  judge  men  by  their  measured  worth, 

And  all  the  glory  and  the  pride  of  birth, 


Poem.  47 

• 

The  insolence  of  office,  show  of  wealth, 

Are  naught  to  us  compared  with  rugged  health 

Of  body  and  of  soul  ;  we  look  the  race 

( )f  men  and  women  squarely  in  the  face  ; 

We  never  scorn  a  man  of  low  estate, 

Nor  bow  the  knee  in  worship  of  the  great. 

\\\>  reach  the  hand  of  fellowship  to  all, 

\\hose  hearts  are  sound,  whose  heads  are  not  too 

small. 

For  us,  ascetic  virtues  have  no  charm, 
Our  vision  is  too  dull  to  see  the  harm 
That  lurks  in  harmless  things,  and  being  free, 
We  grant  and  take  a  generous  liberty. 
I  sing,  if  not  the  over-flowing  bowl, 
The  feast  of  reason  and  the  flow  of  soul, 
The  quips  and  quirks,  and  genial  repartees, 
Bubbles  that  float  upon  a  mind  at  ease, 
And  wit,  that  comes  unbidden  and  unsought, 
And  shimmers  o'er  a  grave  and  noble  thought, 
Like  the  green  sward  upon  a  rocky  lea, 
Or  sunlight  on  the  bosom  of  the  sea. 


48  Poems. 

And  sometimes  in  the  smooth  and  burnished  gold 
Of  bright  and  funny  narratives  well  told, 
Which  like  good  wine  improve  by  growing  old, 
We'll  see  our  own  queer  faces  when  we're  sold. 
And  thus  we'll  while  away  an  hour  at  ease, 
Forgetting  all  the  wretched  similes, 
About  the  ants  and  little  busy  bees, 
Forgetting  all  our  weary  toil  and  strife, 
With  open  hands  to  grasp  the  sweets  of  life, 
With  open  hearts  to  take  in  all  the  good 
There  is  in  frank  and  honest  brotherhood, 
And  grateful  hearts  to  that  mysterious  power, 
That  lives  in  Nature  now  and  evermore, 
Must  meet  us  when  our  little  lives  shall  cease, 
And  where  "  beyond  these  voices  there  is  peace." 


SELECTIONS. 


SELECTIONS. 


DETACHED  THOUGHTS. 

Can  any  man  tell  me,  why  we  should  suppress  a 
hearty  laugh  in  this  world,  because  we  are  blessed  with 
a  hope  that  in  some  better  world  we  may  possibly 
find  some  better  employment? 


There  are  two  classes  of  believers  in  this  world ; — 
and  I  acknowledge  a  kindly  feeling  towards  both  of 
them.  Those  who  open  their  eyes  and  look  for  them 
selves  into  the  mysterious  workings  of  the  Higher 
Law,  into  what  has  been  called  the  "open  secret," 
and  see  or  think  that  they  see, — and  those  who  do  not 
themselves  see,  but  believe  in  those  who  say  that  they 
can  see. 


52  Detached    Thoughts. 

I  submit  to  you  that  there  is  a  show  of  reason  in 
what  a  man  says,  when  he  says  this  :  "It  all  looks 
dark  to  me,  but  how  is  it  that  Shakespeare,  and 
Goethe,  and  Dante,  and  Milton,  and  Swedenborg  were 
believers?  Did  not  their  deeper  vision  detect  a 
harmony,  where  there  is  discord  to  me?" 


I  quarrel  with  no  man's  creed.  Demanding  consid 
erable  freedom  myself  in  order  to  be  made  comfortable, 
I  am  disposed  to  be  tolerant  to  others.  The  more  a 
man  believes,  the  better,  perhaps,  if  his  belief  will  only 
help  him  in  his  desperate  and  sometimes  disastrous 
conflict  with  the  Powers  of  Evil.  Still  I  think  it  is 
better  to  believe  a  little  intensely  than  a  great  deal 
doubtfully. 


Permit  me  to  say  one  word  in  favor  of  a  large- 
minded,  liberal  tolerance  of  opinion — a  tolerance, 
worthy  not  only  of  a  conscientious,  but  an  enlightened 
community.  Trust  me,  one  man  has  just  as  good  a 


Detached    Thoughts.  53 

right  as  another,  to  hold  on  to  an  innocent  belief, 
moral,  religious,  political  or  scientific,  provided  he 
behaves  himself. 


We  never  need  be  alarmed  at  the  perilous  situation 
of  truth.  Of  all  the  things  in  this  world,  that  is  the 
one  thing  which  is  best  capable  of  taking  care  of  itself. 


It  is  indeed  true  that  our  religion  has,  to  a  certain 
extent,  ceased  to  be  a  "  worship  of  the  Beautiful, 
practice  of  the  Good,  pursuit  of  the  True, "  and 
become  to  a  certain  other  extent,  a  cunningly  devised 
piece  of  machinery,  by  means  of  which,  without  the 
harsh  necessity  of  a  well  spent  life,  we  may  shun  the 
horrors  of  one  place,  and  embrace  the  delights  of 
another. 

And  then  our  charity  which  is  the  best  part  of  our 
religion,  and  which  ought  to  be  as  unrestricted  as  the 
sunlight,  how  it  withdraws  the  light  of  its  countenance, 
even  from  them,  who,  with  different  badges,  bow  at 


54  Detached    Thoughts. 

the  same  shrine,  commit  the  same  sins,  and  plead  for 
the  same  redemption. 


It  has  always  appeared  to  me  that  Nature,  although 
patient  and  long-suffering  enough,  is  in  the  end, 
extremely  sure-footed  in  the  administration  of  her 
penalties.  She  never  scatters  them  with  a  careless 
hand.  They  never  come,  unless  in  the  wake  of  a 
violated  law. 


The  poetical  element  in  human  life  is  something  like 
that  strange  plant  that  flowers  of  its  own  accord,  once 
in  a  hundred  years.  It  has  been  wrell  said,  that  your 
poet  must  be  a  man  of  richer,  purer,  nobler  nature 
than  other  men.  Providence  sees  fit,  at  rare  intervals, 
to  send  such  a  man  among  us,  and  when  sent,  he 
makes  poetry,  even  as  the  sun  shines,  or  the  trees 
grow,  or  the  birds  sing,  or  the  buds  blossom — just 
because  it  is  his  nature  to  do  it.  Poesv  has  ever  sung 

•/  o 

and  will  ever  sing  its  own  wild,  sweet  song,   its  own 


Detached    Thought*.  .">."> 

wild  way,  and  in  its  own  good  time  ;  and  you  cannot 
place  fetters  upon  it,  or  force  it  into  -an  unnatural 
activity  by  any  mechanical  process  known  to  the 
money  changers  or  the  committee  men. 


In  the  name  of  all  that  is  the  most  precious  in  life,  in 
the  name  of  all  that  deserves  to  be  immortal,  let  us 
try  to  render  sacred  by  concealment  the  little  good  we 
do.  The  benefits  that  flow  from  our  little  lives  are 
hardly  worth  talking  about,  and  if  remembered  at  all, 
are  better  preserved  in  the  memory  of  others  than 
of  ourselves. 


Possibly  it  is  not  altogether  a  figure  of  speech  to 
represent  music  as  an  angel — a  messenger,  sent  to  us 
from  some  other  world,  and  bringing  with  her  some 
thing  of  the  glory  of  her  real  home.  And  I,  for  one, 
will  welcome  her  all  the  more  warmly,  that  she  comes 
to  us,  not  as  the  representative  of  a  partial  creed,  but 
rather  as  the  representative  of  an  universal  belief — that 


5<>  Detached    Thoughts. 

she  speaks  to  us  not  in  the  dialect  of  a  sect,  but  in  the 
language  of  our  common  humanity.  Coming  from 
afar,  she  stoops  to  play  with  us,  to  smile  with  us,  to 
laugh  with  us,  to  weep  with  us,  and  yet  her  main 
office  is  to  speak  with  us  in  her  sweet,  mystic  language 
of  the  mysteries  that  lie  beyond  us. 


Liberty  is  always  the  child  of  discipline.  They 
alone  are  free  who  are  most  hopelessly  bound,  but 
whose  chains  and  fetters  do  not  chafe  them.  Freedom 
from  salutary  and  necessary  restraint  —  the  privilege 
of  shaking  off  solemn  obligations  which  have  been 
voluntarily  assumed  —  the  right  to  walk  in  anv  other 
than  the  narrow  path  of  duty, — can  these  constitute 
Liberty  ? 


The  world  has  progressed  somewhat.  The  night 
mare  of  superstition  has  been  shaken  off,  and  heresy 
is  no  longer  a  crime.  By  a  long  course  of  bloody 
instructions,  we  have  been  slowly  taught  that  we  can- 


Detached    Thought*.  57 

not  impair  a  man's  faith  or  convince  his  reason  by 
torturing  his  body, —  that  even  a  pestilential  heresy 
will  be  nourished  by  the  blood  of  its  martyrs. 


I  know  of  nothing  that  interferes  with  the  growth 
of  a  healthy  morality  so  much  as  a  long  list  of  arti 
ficial  sins. 


In  the  hurry  and  rush  and  tumult  of  business,  we 
sometimes  lose  sight  of  those  eternal  laws  which 
underlie  all  private  and  public  well-being.  In  the 
broad  glare  of  day,  you  know,  the  stars  seem  to  go 
out ;  but  they  are  there  in  the  heavens  all  the  same, 
and  it  is  no  evidence  that  they  are  extinguished,  that 
the  light  of  a  nearer  sun  floods  our  dull  eyes,  so  that 
we  cannot  see  those  far-off,  still-shining  stars. 


In  that  dark  hour,    which    follows    us    all    with    a 
stealthy  and  ever-increasing  pace  ;  in   that  dark   hour, 


58  Detached    Thoughts. 

when  the  shadows  of  some  other  world  will  come 
falling  thick  around  us,  all  our  loud  and  empty  protes 
tations  of  superior  virtue,  all  the  miserable  quackery 
of  our  whole  lives,  will  be  forgotten,  or  painfully 
remembered  ;  and  our  simple  deeds  of  kindness,  our 
unseen  acts  of  charity  will  come  forth  from  the  twi 
light  of  memory,  radient  even  as  the  stars  come  forth, 
when  day  is  passing  into  the  solemn  night. 


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